


Precaution

by Nefhiriel



Series: White Collar - Ancient 'Verse [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Ancient Rome, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is a soldier of the empire. He has his orders to obey. He is also far too paranoid to let Neal out of his sight. (Ancient world AU; follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/202089">Worth</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precaution

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Imbecamiel for beta'ing!

“Two days? So soon?”

“I am afraid so. The attacks were unexpected—the garrison was caught unprepared. They suffered heavy losses. We knew it was coming, of course, but not so soon. And now...” Peter stopped himself. Capturing her hand, he tucked it into the crook of his arm, walking several steps further along the path before finishing: “None of that matters right now.”

El gave him a knowing look. “In other words, your errand is highly dangerous, and you think your wife will worry for you too much if you tell her about it.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed ruefully. “But apparently my wife is far too clever for me. She knows all my tactics.”

“She does indeed.” El gazed ahead at the garden without really seeing it, and her hand tightened a fraction on Peter's arm, as if the thought to try and physically stop him from going had just crossed her mind.

Peter smiled softly. She didn't know just how strong her hold on him was.

“Has the new slave caused you any trouble?” he inquired, changing the subject.

“I have not noticed anything missing, if that is what you mean. Nor, to my knowledge, has he attempted to kill anyone. Actually, he seems to be quite well liked by the rest of the household. Even Clytia has stopped muttering about those cursed 'snake's eyes' every time she sees him. By the way, his name is Neal.” Elizabeth slid an amused glance in Peter's direction. “But you know that. You know a lot more, besides, that you are _very_ preoccupied with not telling me.”

Peter shook his head. “Really, my dear, I cannot say much more about my mission, even to you, no matter how lovely you look in this light—”

“—You know a lot more about 'the new slave,' whose name you have been so studiously forgetful of,” she corrected. “As for flattery, it will only get you so far, my Lord.”

“Mmm. And how far, precisely, would that be?” Peter gauged her mood surreptitiously, wondering if she might be distractable enough for him to evade this subject as well.

“Not far at all, while you ignore my questions.”

So, not very distractable.

“Very well.” He should know by now when to cut his losses and surrender. “What questions do you have?”

“I would like to know why you suddenly chose to let him stay, when you were so adamant that it was a bad idea,” she stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well and face her scrutiny, “and why you watch him as if you are waiting for him to make a mistake—as if you _expect_ it any day, and wish he would get it over with.” Her eyes narrowed. “What did he do, Peter, and why do you feel responsible?”

Were it anyone but El, he might have walked away. He had walked away from Elizabeth in the middle of an argument, once, shortly after they were married. It had been the day before Peter was summoned to appear for a command posting, and Peter had regretted the unresolved tension for the next month, as letter after letter went without response from his wife. Of course, it was only upon his return, after their heated accusations had turned to mutual confusion, that they had realized neither of their letters had been reaching their intended destinations. That had been the beginning of an unspoken agreement to never part with unsettled quarrels between them.

So Peter stayed, and considered his words carefully.

“I have seen him twice before,” he said at last. “The last time was over three years ago, when I was carrying out his sentence after he was caught stealing.”

“I see. And the first time?” El drew him down to sit on the nearby stone bench.

“The first time was much longer than three years ago.” Peter ran a hand wearily over his face.

“You felt sorry for him.” She was nodding her head thoughtfully, as if everything had just become plain to her.

“He was a child. And I was very, _very_...young.”

El laughed. “As opposed to _now_ —when you are an old soldier, heartless, and ruthless, and set in your ways?”

“Yes,” Peter grunted.

She stopped laughing, but her eyes still danced with mirth. “It is strange... I did not realize in all these years that I was married to a man of that description.”

“That is because you are not one of his _soldiers_.”

She sighed at the reminder of duty, and reached out, pretending to fuss and smooth his tunic into order, finally resting her hand on his shoulder, fingers toying absently with his cloak pin.

“Dear-heart...”

“Do not tell me not to worry about you—especially when you are calling me 'dear-heart.' I would have to cease loving you in order to cease worrying about you, and I cannot cease loving you as long as you are looking at me like _that_.”

Peter was not entirely sure what she meant by 'that,' or why what felt like an expression of puzzled concern could make her face crumple with fondness in response.

“I know you must leave. You will write to me?” she asked.

“Poorly.”

“Yes, _very_ ,” she agreed pragmatically. “And I keep every one of your poor little letters to read and read again.”

Peter did not completely understand _why_ she cared to hear from him so much beyond the regular reports of his continued survival, when more often than not the only subject he could think of to write about was the weather, or the state of the provisions, or things equally dull and inconsequential. He recalled with a wince a letter comprised primarily of talk about muddy road conditions. The poets would undoubtedly be horrified at his idea of love-letters.

“There are plenty of scrolls in the study, my dear,” he pointed out dryly.

“ _Write_. Only do not to pay the messenger too much this time—but make sure he understands _I_ will be the one to pay him generously upon _receiving_ it, preferably without its having been torn or trampled upon.”

“There is one other thing I need to talk to you about, before I go. I intend to take Neal with me.”

“Neal? But why?”

Peter had a feeling he would be asking himself the very same question, multiple times, in the future. “Because, I will not take the chance of him doing... _anything_ while I am away.”

“Peter...” she began slowly, “I do hope you are not expecting him to do any fighting. Criminal or no, I think you may find his predisposition for violence disappointing. Or rather, the entire _lack_ of it.”

“There is no reason for him to be involved in any fighting.” He smiled at her suspicion. “I am not trying to find a way to get rid of him by putting him in the front line of battle, if that is what has you worried. I told you that I would see that he is taken care of to your satisfaction.”

“Just see to it that you take care of _yourself_ to my satisfaction as well.”

Before Peter could make reply, the sound of yelping reached them.

Peter frowned. “Is that...a dog?”

“A little one,” El confessed sheepishly. “He was too sweet, Peter, and cost almost nothing. I could not resist.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “If you continue this new habit of taking in strays, my dear, there may not be room for me when I return.”

“You _did_ say I should find a companion,” she reminded him.

At that moment, both “strays” came running along the path. The dog _was_ “little”—but, judging by the size of its over-large feet, only temporarily so.

Neal was chasing it, presumably because it had in its mouth what looked like a scroll from Peter's study.

“I have got you _now_ , you little terror.” Neal was as triumphant over catching the dog as he was oblivious to his audience. He had halted it by grabbing on to the scruff of its neck, but was having trouble confiscating the scroll one-armed, his right inhibited as it was by the splint.

Peter walked over, stooping down to confiscate the dog's prize, himself. In his surprise, Neal let go of the dog. The dog yelped, and whined and pawed at Peter's leg as if to demand the scroll's return.

“Here now, Satch,” Elizabeth soothed, reaching down to lift the wriggling animal into her arms.

Peter watched her a moment as she cooed over the dog, laughing as it licked at her chin, and knew he couldn't refuse anything that made her glow with happiness like that.

Kissing her lightly on the cheek, he went to return his tooth-marked scroll to its shelf.

***

“Neal?” Elizabeth waited until Peter had left to address him.

Neal had been waiting a few feet off looking faintly pained, as if in anticipation of a reprimand. “Yes, m'Lady?”

Satch was making it impossible for her told hold him, so she released him to run off—with much excited high-pitched barking—deeper into the garden.

“My husband has new orders. He'll be leaving in two days, and has just told me that he intends to take you with him.” She smiled at his confusion. “He does not trust you, not enough to leave you in his absence. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to change his opinion of you.”

“Yes, m'Lady,” he agreed, but too easily, too obediently, and without any evidence of personal feeling on the matter one way or another. It was a practiced response.

But Elizabeth was no fool. There was plenty of calculation and thought going on behind those eyes, emotions buried deep, hidden under an exterior of behavior expected from a slave. It intrigued her, and it worried her. Peter was a generous master to the slaves in his household, and not easily provoked. But Peter did not make a habit of taking a slave with him on his journeys, however unobtrusive or helpful the slave might prove for mundane tasks. And “unobtrusive” was not the first word she would have chosen to describe Neal. His willingness to be helpful had yet to truly be tested.

“Look after him.” She spoke wistfully, hardly expecting a response.

“I will, my Lady.”

She looked sharply at Neal, trying to read his expression, and wondered why she felt inexplicably reassured by a slave's promise.


End file.
